


You Can't Always Get What You Want

by trulybliss



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reunions, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-02
Updated: 2012-04-02
Packaged: 2017-11-02 23:09:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trulybliss/pseuds/trulybliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after Sherlock's death and John isn't sure he can take it anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Can't Always Get What You Want

It had been a bad idea to come back here, especially today. Too many memories swam behind his eyes as John Watson stood in the living room of 221B. A glance at the sofa reminds him of Sherlock sprawled across it in one of his trademark dressing gowns. A stain on the rug from when Sherlock had snuck up on John causing him to drop the cup of soup he’d just heated. A mug on the coffee table, the words ‘World’s #1 Blogger’ printed oh so proudly across it’s stained ceramic that Sherlock had given him after his favorite was broken by an experiment gone wrong.

Everywhere his eyes landed dredged up a memory even more painful then the last. Smiles shared behind the backs of NSY’s finest, silent apologies made through the giving and receiving of tea, heated arguments over experiments, jokes over dinner, pleading eyes, slammed doors, cold hands, soft kisses, gentle touches, tight embraces, bite marks, bruises and blood. It all rushed at him, swirling round and round his head until the sheer weight of his sorrow brought him crashing to his knees. He couldn’t see for the tears, and each breath a shuddering gasp ripping through his lungs.

Thank goodness Mrs. Hudson was off visiting her sister or else she might have heard John having his strop upstairs and come to check on him. Or maybe he should be thanking Mycroft. After all it was he who had arranged for someone to come help him clear everything away tomorrow. Apparently three years was long enough time to wait before you stop paying the rent of flat that holds nothing but your dead brother’s memory. God, three years tomorrow. Three years. Three miserable years spent trying to convince himself and everyone else that he could manage to pick up the pieces of his life and move on after his heart was so viciously ripped away from him. So, that’s what he was trying to do: move on.

It’s why John had come to Baker Street today, he wanted to stand one last time in the only place he truly considered his home. He wanted to breathe in every last memory, tuck them away somewhere deep inside himself where no one could touch them or taint them with lies. He would never believe that Sherlock had been anything less then a good and brilliant man. He had to believe, it was all that kept him going. That if he was the only person who still believed in Sherlock then at least there was one.

He isn’t sure just how long he spends curled in on himself, sobbing on the floor. But, it’s obvious that at some point, the grief had won out again and he had ended up passing out when John wakes with a stiff shoulder and a crick in his neck half sprawled under the sofa. John doesn’t move to get up right away if only because he doesn’t have any memories of Sherlock that involve the underside of the sofa and the new sight gives him a chance to collect himself.

John can honestly say that he had never made a study of the opposite side of chairs, not even his own, and the thought almost makes him smile because if anyone would it would’ve been Sherlock. But while staring at the bottom their - no, his - sofa he couldn’t help but notice something a miss. It was a small flap, made up of the same material used to line the bottom of the chair, tucked almost seamlessly into the corner of the base. It took little effort to pull away the bit of fabric, exposing a small object hidden behind it.

After sliding his head out from under the sofa and sitting up, John looked down at the item in his hand. Plain dark fabric wrapped around a some sort of oblong object and held closed by a rubber band wrapped a few time round it’s middle. John didn’t think twice about opening it, after all, he did find it in his couch. Why shouldn’t he open it? Of all the things he might have expected to find inside the parcel a hypodermic needle, still in it’s sealed plastic wrappings, and a vial that read Morphine Sulfate 300mg/mL was not it.

The world goes still for a moment.

Anger. Sherlock had sworn to John that he was clean and yet here in his hand was proof that he wasn’t, or that at least the flat wasn’t. Yes, anger was what John should feel. Anger he could handle. He could shout, curse and maybe punch a wall. Then, with a little effort, he could use it to pull himself from the mire of his depression and finally move on with his life. Unfortunately anger wasn’t what John felt.

After a cold and lonely walk back to the room he rented away from Baker Street and the memories he left to stagnate there, John found himself again considering the Morphine and needle. There really wasn’t anything particularly remarkable about it other then the fact that he had found it in the home Sherlock and he had shared. Even then, if a stranger off the street who knew nothing of his friend’s history with the drug had walked in and found it lying on the table, they might be persuaded to think that it belonged to the doctor’s own stat kit. He ended up tucking them into his own pocket, after telling himself that he was sparing Mycroft the unpleasantness of finding it.

Mycroft’s reaction to Sherlock’s death surprised John. There were no tears or broken confessions of guilt, not that John had been expecting them, he doubts the man would ever open up like that in front of anyone. But, Mycroft had his own way of showing his pain, like him paying the rent on Baker Street which he had done up until now. He also made the effort to check in on John at least once every two weeks. Sometimes it was just a phone call, but more often then not it involved being abducted for afternoon tea and invasive questions about his life. Mycroft, almost guiltily, made sure that whatever John needed he had. When John needed a new therapist after he punched the last one in the face for accusing Sherlock of lying Mycroft found one. When he lost his job because he couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed for a week after the one year anniversary, Mycroft had enough money deposited in his account to pay for rent and food as well as having Greg conveniently drop by to bully John into joining him at the pub. Maybe Mycroft considered it penance, or perhaps looking after his brother’s lover filled part of the gap Sherlock had left behind. Whatever the reason John tried to be grateful, or at least as grateful as a man who didn’t like to be taken care could be.

He wasn’t sure he had it in him to judge anyone anymore. Not Mycroft for trying to hold on to whatever little piece of Sherlock he saw in John, and certainly not Sherlock for holding on to his past. True he may have been clean, but why keep the stuff if he didn’t think he would want to use it one day. After all, that’s why John had smuggled his army pistol with him back to London. He was a Watson after all, and if there was one thing a Watson understood was addiction.

His evening was spent alone in the tiny flat pouring himself drink after drink hoping it would help dull the ache in his chest and maybe tonight he would sleep unencumbered by nightmares of blood on his hands. Unfortunately, the pain did not ease, instead it seemed to strengthen it’s vice like grip around his heart. He couldn’t live like this, pretending he wasn’t in constant pain, it would to consume him if he didn’t do something soon. 

A walk would help, John thought with some desperation. So ignoring the ground swaying beneath him, John grabbed his coat and stumbled out into the night.

It was hardly a surprise to see where his feet had carried him tonight of all nights. John always made the effort to visit Sherlock’s grave once a week. He used to come every day, but according to everyone who felt entitled to give their opinion on the matter that was just far too often. But, they didn’t understand what it felt like to lose a part of yourself like John had, to have tasted happiness then have it taken it away.

Collapsing to his knees for the second time that day, John reached a shaking hand out to brush a stray leaf away from Sherlock’s tombstone. It was cold for a summer night, or maybe it was just John that felt cold. Though that was hardly something John really wanted to contemplate, so instead he stuffed his hands into his pockets to keep them warm. It was then that John realized that he had returned the syringe and bottle of morphine back to jacket earlier that evening when he didn’t want to look at it anymore.

Oh Sherlock, how John wished that he could have spoken to him about it, tried to understand. Was he under the delusion that it aided the thinking process, or was his mind so daunting that the only respite he found came after the prick of a needle? His guess would be the former if only based on how much he knew Sherlock hated when his mind would go quiet, when it had nothing to mull over. John can remember his time spent in the hospital, after he’d been shot. It was a blessed release to float away on a Morphine cloud, away from the searing agony of his wound and crushing guilt of failure. But upon returning to London the weight of his gun gave him more comfort then the sugar pills they prescribed him. These days his gun did little else but remind him of what he’d lost. The vile in his palm though, was surprisingly heavy.

It was with steady hands that John prepared the syringe, unwrapping it and drawing up every last drop. 300mg has been known to cause death in patients not already on a morphine regiment, not to mention the effect all the alcohol in his system would have, provided the rational doctor side of his brain. The chance of him surviving the dose was slim to none. Then it was just a matter of removing his coat, finding the spongy little vein in the crook of his arm and pushing the plunger home. Mycroft was right, three years is long enough to wait, he would put and end to it right now.

Warmth, like sunshine enveloped him slowly and yet all at once. It cradled him, seeped through his skin and rushed through his veins. Everything began to slow, he was made of light and air, floating above a sea of turmoil and sailing away like a cloud caught on the breeze. It would carry him far away from the struggle of having to live each day alone. He could almost see Sherlock now, hovering over him, stroking his cheek and crying out his name. Don’t worry Sherlock, I’ll be there soon was his last thought before John drifted away.

…

Too bright. That was all John was able to comprehend. The room was too bright and it smelled too clean, like someone had spilt a bottle of bleach. It made him itch. The noises didn’t help either. A constant cacophony of voices and sounds fighting for dominance but nothing quite winning out so they all sort of mixed together into a dull pounding in his head making everything sway and swim. John couldn’t control anything, he was simply lost to the stimuli surrounding him, over powering him. It seemed even bodily functions were beyond him as he desperately tried to drag in a much-needed gulp of air that would not come. It was too much and John allowed himself to be drug into the darkness once more.

Waking wasn’t as jarring the next time, though it was still far from pleasant. That is, until a warm familiar baritone washed over him.

“Welcome back.” It rang in his ears like angel’s song, that voice he never thought he would get to hear again. John squeezed his eyes shut, never wanting to open them and break the spell. Cool fingers lightly swept across John’s forehead and came to rest, feather light, cupping his cheek and it was too much, he couldn’t resist anymore. Opening his eyes to the blindingly brilliant light hurt, but he couldn’t look away if he wanted to. Before him, haloed in light, sat the last person he thought he would ever see again. The only person he wanted to see.

“Oh good, it worked.” Was all John could manage to rasp out.

As he quickly pulled his hand away from John’s cheek, something familiar and yet foreign flashed across Sherlock’s too pale face. But before he was able to figure out what it was Sherlock fisted his hands into his especially unruly curls and turned his face down and away from John’s sight. He could practically feel the tension vibrating off of Sherlock as he leaned on John’s bed. No, he could feel it! Sherlock was shaking, actually shaking!

“Sherlock?” John’s throat was raw and ached but he needed to understand. He reached out, tentatively placed a hand over one of Sherlock’s and slowly stroked a thumb across his white knuckles. It took a moment but eventually Sherlock’s raged breathing and shaking calmed and he was able to speak.

“No, you’re not dead John. I don’t know what I would have done if I- if you-“ He had to pause to drag in a shuddering breath “I owe you an explanation.” Though he did not look John in the eye Sherlock lowered a hand from his hair and laid it on one of John’s sheet covered thighs. Now that John could see Sherlock’s face he recognized the pain etched so clearly upon it and he knew where he had seen that look before. It was the pain he saw so clearly written across his own face every day he looked into a mirror for the past three years.

“Three years ago, the whole debacle with Moriarty, it came to a head at Bart’s. He was going to have you all killed, I couldn’t let that happen, so I played his game. But, I couldn’t just come back, not while there were still people out there who would see you come to harm. I had to put a stop to it. Please believe me when I say that not a day went by that I didn’t miss you desperately. But, you weren’t safe and it was my fault. I could not rest until I made it right.” Sherlock’s hand trembled as he fought regain his breathing again.

John’s head ached as did his stomach, throat and each of his limbs. But his heart felt lighter then it had in ages.

Sherlock, it sung with each beat.

Sherlock

Sherlock

Sherlock

Sherlock

“You’re alive!” John all but cried out.

“Yes, I am.” Finally, Sherlock looked up, his eyes ablaze with an all-righteous fury. “So you can imagine my surprise that on the night before I was to be reunited with you that I did not find you in a similar state.” These last words were spat at John. “What were you thinking John? After all I’d done to keep you safe you try and kill yourself the night I come home?!”

“Well, I hardly knew you were alive and coming home, did I? It’s not like you sent me a note. In fact, as far as I knew I would be spending the anniversary of your death clearing out our old flat courtesy of your brother! Does he even know you’re alive?” John countered, it wasn’t an argument, simply a statement of fact.

“Of course Mycroft knows, I unfortunately needed his help to pull off this whole charade considering just how widely spread Moriarty’s web was spread. Not to mention that I had also asked him to look after you for me while I was away, which he obviously neglected to do. Can you imagine what that was like for me John? I thought you were safe. I could handle anything Moriarty’s syndicate threw at me as long as I knew you were safe. The thought even sustained me long enough to stay over night with my brother for God’s sake, because he had arranged to have you come to Baker street tomorrow so we could be reunited. What if I hadn’t decided to check on you through the CCTV network tonight? What then?” John was sure he’d never seen Sherlock so crazed. The wild energy and tightly coiled muscles yes, but this wasn’t poorly contained excitement. It wasn’t even fear, it was something much darker and much simpler.

“The alcohol didn’t surprise me considering your family history, and the midnight walk through a frankly terrible neighborhood to my grave was so predictable it was almost endearing. Then you pull out and needle, shoot up and pass out! I’m lucky you didn’t choke on your own vomit before the ambulance or I was able to get there! Where did you even get it? I’m sure Mycroft wouldn’t have missed an IV drug habit.”

“I should be asking you that. I found it in the flat this morning.”

“And you took it? Surely as a doctor you would know to check for expiration dates! You could have died John!”

“That was the point!” John cried, finally managing to silence the flow of irate babble falling from his friend’s mouth. He understood that Sherlock was unfamiliar with the more basic emotions and that anger was easier to admit to then guilt. But, he needed Sherlock to understand. “I couldn’t live another day without you Sherlock. I wouldn’t do it anymore, I didn’t want to.”

Sherlock stared up at John for a moment, and oh to have those piercing eyes upon him again, watching him lay all the facts out in his head, John was sure nothing could be better. That is, until recognition dawned behind blue grey eyes, another puzzle solved, and smiling Sherlock spoke five simple words.

“You won’t need to anymore.”


End file.
